When Five Becomes Three
by Sardixiis
Summary: When the onslaught of the Battle of Five Armies reached the streets of Dale, the five armies no longer became as crucial to Bard as three people. Three little people who held his heart and soul. Three little people who were lost somewhere within a city completely besieged by war. Three people he absolutely had to find, no matter how many armies were fighting.
1. Chapter 1 - Bard

_Author's Note : While I love LOTR and the Hobbit fandom, I never figured I would write in either canon. They're just too amazing to tarnish with my writing and lack of knowledge. Even so, the first time I saw the final Hobbit movie I couldn't help wishing I could find a specific type of story. Ages passed and I never found it. Then I randomly watched the movie again on TV and realized, I still really want to see this! So, since I obviously wasn't going to get anyone else writing it, I eventually accepted that I would have to dip my feet into this fandom and write it myself. Hopefully it turned out alright. A special thanks to **BlackRoseRaven109** for beta-ing this for me and giving me the confidence that it's at least not horrific!_

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 **When Five Becomes Three**

There shouldn't have been a battle. While Bard had been well aware that Thorin might not give in without a fight, even with the Arkenstone in their possession, he had been expecting a siege at worst. After all, what type of war could thirteen dwarves bring to a combined army? Once the others had shown up, a battle had become a much more likely possibility. But not on the streets of Dale. Never there! Dale was supposed to be safe! For that was where his children were, unprotected and unprepared for what had struck the ruins of the city.

It was the only thing that kept racing through his head as he battled his way through the streets. He had to find his children. There hadn't been any sign of them so far, which he tried to view as heartening given how many orcs he had slain on the way to his current location. If he hadn't found them yet there was a chance they were in a safer part of the city. Bard prayed to the gods that they were, but he couldn't count on it. Until he had them back in his arms he wouldn't have any peace.

"Bain! Sigrid!"

His yelling only drew the attention of orcs. He had to dodge a slash to his head and stab the orc through the chest before calling out again.

"Tilda!"

Bard continued down the blood-splattered streets of Dale, calling out for his children and killing any orc in his way. Each one dead was one less who could harm his little ones. With every street he traveled with no sign of Sigrid, Bain, or Tilda, his panic grew. They had to be here somewhere. Alive. He absolutely refused to consider the other possibilities.

The sound of pounding feet off to his right drew his attention. A large group was heading his way, though friend or foe Bard had no idea. He ducked back into the shadows, waiting to see what he was up against. If he was going to be facing an overwhelming number of orcs then he was better off escaping and living to fight another battle than confronting them alone. Besides, he had his children to think about. He was all they had. They were all he had as well, and they were still missing. He sent up a silent prayer for their safety before pushing thoughts of them aside to focus on the incoming group. He had just tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, prepared for the fight, when the shadows across the way revealed his own men and not orcs. After breathing a sigh of relief he hurried out to join them. For a moment the men braced themselves, thinking him an orc, before they relaxed.

"Lord Bard!"

"Dragonslayer!"

Cutting off their questions, Bard asked the one question he was desperate for an answer to.

"Has anyone seen my children?"

A pall descended on the group as they all shook their heads in a negative. Receiving that answer was like being stabbed in the chest. Bard had to close his eyes and take a very brief moment before he could box up his despair and look forward. They were in the middle of a battle. He couldn't afford to fall apart.

"Follow me, men!"

He turned and headed off down the street, the small contingent of men following behind him. There was still work to be done and orcs that needed to be destroyed, but that didn't mean he couldn't continue looking for his children as well.

There seemed to be no end to the orcs, for every turn they made brought them more. The group of men dispatched those that they met and moved on. All the while Bard continued to call out for his children, but it was to no avail. As the hours went by Bard began to hate any lull in the fighting, and they were coming more and more often. Each break allowed the desperation and pain deep in his heart to surge to the surface and nearly overwhelm him. The battle was clearly dying down, yet he was no closer to finding his children than he had been when he'd first reached Dale at the start.

"Tilda! Bain, Sigrid! Tilda!"

Hands shaking, Bard turned a slow circle, hoping to spot one of his loved ones or at the very least get some kind of answer. The answer he did receive was not one he was hoping for.

"Are you looking for your children, My Lord?" a woman asked as she paused in her flight. "Last I saw them they were in the market, but that was being overrun quite some time ago. I do hope they got out."

She didn't wait for a response from Bard before she hurried off. Not that it would have mattered. Bard's face had gone deathly pale, and for a long time he couldn't put together any fully cohesive thoughts.

The marketplace was overrun. His children had been there. The marketplace was overrun. His children…

Bard's body was moving before his brain truly registered the situation. He found himself halfway to the market by the time his head caught up to the rest of him. Thank the gods there hadn't been any lingering orcs nearby for he would have been easy prey. Realizing that, and recognizing the fact that he would be no use to his children dead or maimed, he pushed his concern for them out of the way – at least as far as it would go – and focused on his surroundings. The corpses of dead orcs, men, and even elves littered the streets. Every few feet he would find at least one. At first he tried to sidestep the puddles and streaks of blood, but he quickly discovered it was a useless endeavor. There was simply too much of it. Besides, his boots and most of his clothing were already covered, and it would be much faster to take a straight course.

Bard flinched when he spotted a group of men sprawled across the road. He didn't need to look closely to determine they were dead. Their wounds were gruesome and obvious even from a distance. The sight of one with its face nearly torn off forced Bard to look away. This battle was going to take a severe toll on the people of Laketown. Before, they'd only been holding on by a thread. Now they would need a leader more than ever.

 _He_ was that leader.

Bard knew that, yet it didn't honestly matter to him in the slightest. He'd done everything that he had for the sake of his children. In a position of authority he could provide for them better than he could otherwise. They were the reason he'd taken on the role of mayor. Without them, there was no point. Nothing came before his children. Not even all of the townsfolk. They were going to have to manage on their own until Bard could assure himself that all three of his little ones were safe and secure.

He carefully picked his way around the fallen men and continued onward. The closer he got to his destination, the harder it became to breathe. Complete panic was closing in around him. With each street he took he found more dead orcs littered about. The number of other dead were increasing too. He thought he'd faced a considerable number during his own battles in the streets of Dale, but that was nothing compared to this. The death toll was already greater than what he'd seen, and it only seemed to be growing larger the closer he drew to the marketplace. If this continued… He couldn't even finish the thought as dread filled him.

Desperation was no longer a strong enough word to describe the emotion running rampant through his mind. It took every ounce of reason he possessed to remain at a cautious walk so he could maintain awareness of his surroundings. He managed, however. At least he did until he reached the final street before the turn into the market. Bard couldn't help himself at that point. Self-preservation completely forgotten, he raced ahead. He skidded around a pile of fallen stones on the side of the entryway and then slammed to a stop as his next step didn't result in the thud of boot meeting stone but a splash. Startled, Bard looked down. Immediately he was trying to force down bile. The cobblestones were completed painted with a thick mix of red and black blood like a grisly piece of artwork. The only areas not outwardly covered in blood were those covered by bodies, of which there were quite a few, though Bard knew they were merely concealing the blood that lay beneath. He shuddered and pressed onward, thinking of his children instead of the scene of horror and death around him.

His children! They had been in the middle of all of this. It was the worst scene of carnage Bard had seen in all of Dale, and his children had been here. Here! How could they have survived? Very few had. So far he'd seen no sign of movement. He'd seen no sign of his children either.

Clinging desperately to that thought as terror clamped an iron fist around his throat, he started searching. That giant fist had already squeezed his heart into near silence. It wouldn't beat again until he found his loved ones. Alive. If they weren't, it would never pick up its rhythm again.

Bard picked through the remains, searching every nook and cranny and moving any bodies that looked like they could be covering another, smaller, one. As he searched he continued calling out in what was quickly becoming an automatic rhythm. He could already feel a rough feeling settling into his throat and his voice starting to go, but if that was the price he had to pay to find his children then he would gladly pay it.

"Sigrid! Bain! Tilda!"

None of his calls received a reply. It was something he ignored in favor of the fact that none of his searching had turned up any physical trace either. That left him to hope that his children had escaped and were still alive, or better yet, that they had never been here in the first place. Some part of him warned that it was likely nothing more than a desperate hope, but it was a hope he had to hold on to. For the sake of his own sanity there was no other way.

As he picked his way through the bodies in the market, Bard noticed something unusual. Most of the bodies were scattered individually or in small groups of two or three. Off in the corner of the market, however, was a mass of dead. The area closest to the corner could easily be described as a pile. The sight made his blood run cold, and a sick feeling settled into his stomach. Without hesitation, he rushed toward the grouping, tripping over a few bodies in his haste. When he drew closer Bard realized that the outermost dead were all orcs, though there weren't very many of them. As his gaze traveled inward and toward the corner, he found only the bodies of villagers. A few nearest the orcs had weapons nearby. The rest had been defenseless, the majority women and children. What had happened became all too clear. When the enemy had poured into the courtyard, it had caught many off guard. Either fleeing in a blind panic or cut off from any escape, the villagers had fled to the corner of the courtyard. With their backs against the walls they could try to mount a defense on only one front, but it had been a futile effort. They had been too outnumbered. Once their few defenders had fallen, the rest had nowhere to run and had been cut down where they stood. Body after body, until all had fallen. If his children had been caught in the market when the battle had reached the streets of Dale, this was likely where they would be. In this pile of dead.

"No… No!"

Choking on his grief, Bard began throwing bodies off of the pile and uncovering those beneath. Had he seen someone else doing what he was, he would have been appalled by the utter disrespect for the dead. As it was, that wasn't even a concern for him at the moment. All that mattered were a potential three of those dead. Three precious bodies that didn't belong in this pile. They belonged tucked into warm beds where they were safe from the evils of the world.

The pile of bodies grew wider as he pushed more of them aside. Many he recognized, but none were the three he was hoping to find – though not here, not in this pile of dead. When he finally revealed the last of the dead, a thrill of hope went through him. None of these poor souls were his children. There was still the barest flicker of a chance that they were still alive. But where?

As Bard scanned the destruction of the market again he realized he wasn't alone. A few other men from Laketown had ventured in, hoping to find their missing loved ones and looking as shell-shocked by the scene as Bard had felt. They weren't the only ones walking through the fallen either. There were three elves as well, searching through the remains to find any of their own kin. Elves! Thranduil! Why hadn't he thought of it before?! If he went to Thranduil he could get help in finding his children. The Elvenking had aided his people more than once already, and that had been before they'd really met or worked together. Now, when Bard needed aid more than ever before, he hoped Thranduil would once again offer his help. If the Elvenking's aid led him to find his children alive, he would be forever in Thranduil's debt. If they found bodies instead, at least his people would be safe in Thranduil's hands until they could pick a new mayor. Bard knew if his children were lost to this world, he wouldn't be continuing in it for long.


	2. Chapter 2 - Thranduil

Thranduil

Thranduil should have known this would turn into a worst-case scenario. Dwarves were involved after all. The orcs, wargs, and myriad of other foul things only made it worse. How did his people always get drawn into these battles? Granted, he was partially at fault for this one. It wasn't like he didn't know that expeditionary trips often led to battle, especially those that set out partially for threat assessment. The battle wasn't completely unexpected, but it was certainly bigger than he could have imagined. Annoying.

He ground his teeth as his gaze flickered over the battlefield. Elves were engaged with orcs and wargs all over the plains. With no chance to do any real planning, Thranduil knew there would be little to no way to control the remainder this battle or direct his troops. His people were going to have to rely on their own skill. Catching nearby movement out of the corner of his eye, Thranduil slashed his sword to his right, parrying an attack aimed for his gut. He forced the blade aside and quickly decapitated the orc that had foolishly come after him. Turning his attention away from the whole of the battlefield, Thranduil once again focused on what was taking place nearest to him. A quick glance around revealed that most of his guards and the unit that had remained with him were still on their feet. He didn't get the chance to think much beyond that before he had to jerk his head back to prevent an arrow from finding its mark in his skull. It had been so close that he'd felt the air whistling by his face as the arrow had passed. Eyes blazing with fury, Thranduil whipped his elk around toward the direction the arrow had come, hoping to find its source. Whichever orc had attempted to kill him had been smart enough not to stick around. He found no sign of an archer. What he did find was unsettling.

A contingent of orcs seemed to be streaming away from the battle. Had they been fleeing, Thranduil would have been forced to let them go despite his disgust at the thought. He would prefer to hunt each and every one of them down until he could purge their vile existence from the area. The fact that these orcs didn't appear to be attempting to escape the battle sent a thrill of unease down his spine. They were heading into Dale, toward the camps his people and the men of Laketown had set up. Some of his people remained in the camps, but every one of those left behind knew how to fight. Most, if not all of them, would survive even if they were outnumbered. Thranduil didn't need to go to their rescue. As for the men, they weren't truly his concern. He could ignore what was happening with a clear conscience and focus on the battle currently surrounding him if he wished.

Still…

He glared at the orcs as they poured into Dale. Taking the battle into the confines of the ruined city ran the risk of costing more elven lives; however, it would also provide the opportunity to force their enemies to attack from a limited number of sides, unlike the current battle out in the open. Thranduil debated for a moment longer before his face set in firm decision and he turned toward Dale. He'd seen enough innocent blood spilled in battle. This bloodshed he could stop, even if it was only the blood of men.

Thranduil released a piercing whistle to signal the unit that would remain with him that they were changing course. He didn't bother to check if they were following before he urged his elk after the orcs invading Dale. His guards and the other soldiers would follow without question. Keeping his mount to a slow canter so there wouldn't be too large a gap between him and his soldiers, Thranduil picked off every orc within reach. He had barely entered the city when the distinct sound of twanging bows and arrows whistling through the air reached him. Even with the warning, there was no time to react. Thranduil heard the thud of multiple arrows hitting their target as the impacts reverberated up to him. Miraculously, none had struck him, though one had come far too close for comfort. His elk had not been as lucky. Moments after Thranduil had felt the impacts the animal began to fall. His roll forward was automatic, and he came back to his feet without hesitation, ready to battle. The orcs would pay for this death. He whirled to engage them even as the other elves began to join the fight.

They made quick work of the orcs, and Thranduil motioned his elves toward the streets and further into the city. Without question there were more orcs throughout the city, and he had every intention of hunting them down. As they threaded their way through the streets, remaining alert to their surroundings, the sounds of battle reached their ears once again. More than the sounds of crashing metal, screams of terror rang out. It wasn't hard to follow the noise.

The group of elves swept into the courtyard prepared to fight. The space was filled with men and women and, of course, the attacking orcs. Already Thranduil could spot a few dead within the masses. Given the number of orcs pouring in from other entrances, the courtyard would soon be the site of a bloodbath. Not a word needed to be spoken for the elves to set upon the nearest orcs with a vengeance. Slaughtered bodies fell behind them as they spread through the courtyard. Or market, Thranduil supposed. That appeared to be what the place had been prior to the attack.

Thranduil was aware of little else happening beyond that in his direct surroundings until the high pitched, tinny scream of a terrified child pierced the air. His head snapped up, immediately recognizing the sound even over the din of battle. He spun toward it, eyes searching for the source. There! About halfway down the courtyard wall were three children. The eldest was holding a young one pressed against her leg while the third – their brother he assumed – was wielding a far too large sword – likely poached from one of the fallen men – and keeping himself between the orcs and his sisters. It was a brave attempt but would likely amount to nothing given the number of enemies. No one would be able to spare time or energy to help the boy during the chaos. No one except, perhaps, Thranduil. He remembered when his own son was that age. Legolas had been spared the horrors of battle, of war. Thranduil had made sure of it. As much of a presence as it had had within his realm, he had made sure that his son had been shielded from the worst of it when he'd been an elfling. These children didn't have that luxury. As much as their father might have wished to protect them, they'd been thrown right into the middle of it. There would be no sparing them from the brutality of battle now. The only thing they could be spared from was death, and that was something Thranduil could do.

He moved forward with renewed purpose, cutting down any orc between him and the children. While he was aware three of his guard were following him and further reducing the orcish numbers, they were only a side thought. His full focus was on reaching the little ones before it was too late. Surprisingly the boy was holding his own quite well. He'd managed to dodge a careless swing of an orc and ducked back out of the way, herding his sisters with him. They hadn't received direct attention yet, but that wouldn't last. It was one of the things Thranduil hated most about orcs. They drew more pleasure from killing innocents than they did trained warriors. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he spotted an orc target in on the children. It began stalking directly toward them.

As the orc approached the boy raised his sword, a look of both defiance and fear on his face. Thranduil saw the youngest's eyes go wide in stark terror before she screamed and dropped into a crouch with her arms wrapped over her head. A child's form of protection that would do her absolutely no good.

"Bain!" the elder girl cried as the orc drew within closing distance of their brother.

Thranduil nearly flew the last few yards to them. Before the orc could draw any closer to the young ones Thranduil's blade found its mark in the orc's neck, and he beheaded it with a fierce snarl. Blood splattered outward, some of it staining Bain's face. Stunned eyes met blazing blue and for a moment Bain appeared just as terrified of Thranduil as he had been of the orc, if not more so. It quickly passed once he realized the elf wasn't going to harm him or his siblings. In fact, he had just saved their lives.

Taking his eyes off the children for a moment, Thanduil paused to take in their surroundings. The number of orcs was growing despite how many had already been taken down. Soon enough the space would become too confining to move freely. If he had any chance of getting the children to safety they would have to go now. There wasn't any time to waste. He carelessly dispatched another orc as he glanced over his shoulder at his three new charges.

"We need to move. Now. Follow me and stay close."

Thranduil was confident he could forge a path to one of the exits. His guards would easily be able to keep any enemies off their backs as long as they stayed together and near the wall.

"O-okay," Bain stammered before stumbling after Thranduil.

They had both figured that the girls would follow suit. It took a few steps before they realized that wasn't the case.

"Tilda, come on!"

Bain looked back at the sound of his sister's voice and found Sigrid pulling at Tilda's arm and trying to get the girl to move. It didn't seem to be doing any good.

"Sigrid?"

"She won't move!" Sigrid cried as she pulled at Tilda's arm again.

She couldn't even manage to peel one arm off from her sister's head. Tilda was absolutely frozen in fear. Nothing Sigrid said or did budged her an inch. Realizing the littlest one wouldn't be moving under her own power, Thranduil strode over to them. Right before he reached them the eldest's eyes widened and she shifted as if to stand in his way. Did she truly believe that he would strike a child? While that was a trait found far too often in men, it was rare or non-existent in elves. Sigrid had nothing to fear, though the slight tightening of his lips when he'd realized the cause of her fear likely hadn't reassured her. She could be afraid of him, if she wished, but it wasn't going to stop him. He stepped around her and headed for the youngest. Tilda hadn't even seen him coming. When Thranduil scooped her up into his arms she squeaked in fright, unaware that orcish hands would have been far less gentle.

"Shh, _penneth_ ," he murmured into her ear as he settled her on his hip.

The whisper of breath against Tilda's ear was enough, even though she didn't fully understand the words. She latched her arms around Thranduil's neck and hid her face against his armor.

With the children all secured, Thranduil set off again, the eldest two following close behind. Thankfully the closest way out kept the wall to their left. It would keep Tilda safely shielded and Thranduil's right arm open to easily use his blade to dispatch any orcs coming toward them. He soon had to make use of the available room by removing an orc's sword arm from its shoulder before stabbing it through the side. Even with his guards covering him and the children, there were simply too many orcs to prevent all of them from breaking through. Given the children were completely defenseless – none of the elves truly trusted the boy to make good use of his appropriated sword – the guards were focusing most of their attention on the area surrounding the children and their lord's back. The Elvenking, they knew, could well take care of himself as long as he wasn't facing an overwhelming number of opponents at once, even when he was limited by a child in his arms.

There were more and more orcs pouring into the market space even as they attempted to get out. The screams of men grew in pitch and volume as more people were targeted and overrun. Tiny arms tightened around Thranduil's neck, making it clear he wasn't the only one who'd picked up on the increased noise. A few steps later there was another tightening at his neck, though this one came from a tug on his cloak. Thranduil glanced back and found a white faced, wide eyed Sigrid clutching at his cloak as if terrified of being separated from him. A potential impediment, but not one that would cause major problems as long as she was smart enough not to strangle him.

It turned out to be a good thing that Sigrid was so close to him. Thranduil's instincts alerted him to the danger just in time. It was only his quick reaction and proximity that saved Sigrid's life once again. He whirled fully toward her. Without a free hand available he threw his arm over her shoulder to press his fist and the butt of his sword against her back to drive her forward. She crashed into his chest an instant before an arrow shattered on the stone wall where she'd been standing not a moment before. One of Thranduil's guards took out the orc archer with his own arrow while Thranduil steadied Sigrid. She was trembling but appeared functional. More functional than her brother, at least, who looked to be in shock after the close call. He was still staring at the broken pieces of arrow on the ground when the rest of the group was ready to continue onward.

"Move, boy!" Thranduil growled.

Bain visibly jumped and scrambled forward, closing the distance to Thranduil and Sigrid.

Satisfied the boy was going to follow, Thranduil started off for the exit once more. Though they had to fight their way out it wasn't the worst they had seen in the courtyard. They slipped through the opening and moved down the street, picking up their pace as they went. The more distance they put between themselves and the slaughter at the market the safer they would be. The sooner they got off the street directly connecting to the courtyard the safer they would be as well. Eventually the orcs would run out of prey and venture into the ruins. Thranduil was not going to allow them a straight line of sight to the children for long. If they weren't in sight, there was no chance of being spotted by a bored orc looking for its next target.

As the din of battle receded behind them, the heavy, almost frantic breathing of the older children became more apparent. Their adrenaline would wear off soon, if it hadn't already. Despite the exhaustion they were bound to feel, they would need to keep going until they reached somewhere safe. Thranduil was aiming for the camp at the edge of the city where they would be far from the main battle and near other protectors. He could trust the elves remaining at the camp to look after the children while he returned to battle. A glance back at the children revealed his concerns were correct. They were starting to flag.

"Where are we going?" Bain asked when he spotted Thranduil looking at them.

"Camp."

"But we have to find Da!"

Thranduil merely looked at Bain. The child could not truly believe it would be possible to find his father while a battle was going on.

"Then you'll sit tight until it's safe."

"But…"

Bain was immediately cut off when Thranduil's gaze returned to him. The look wasn't cold, exactly, but it would give Bain the distinct feeling that he should shut his mouth. Clearly they weren't going to find Bain's father on the boy's timeline. Thranduil could see the boy's thought process as it danced across Bain's face. A flicker of unease appeared there, and he took a nervous step closer to Thranduil. Apparently it had just occurred to him that there were still orcs around, and as he'd already discovered, he was no match for them. The fight won for the moment, Thranduil once again began leading them toward the camp.

They reached the camp after only a few more run-ins with stray pockets of orcs. The children hadn't said a word in a while, though they were likely too exhausted to bother. Sigrid had been tripping over the loose and uneven stones more and more often. Bain was struggling to keep up with Thranduil's fast pace, though he was forcing himself to manage it for the simple fact that he felt much safer when he was within reach. Chances were Thranduil wouldn't have any problem leaving the children to return to the battle. They would be too tired to argue about him not immediately finding their father. When they reached the center of the camp, he motioned the guards to cover the perimeter before ushering the children into his tent.

"You may rest here. We will find your _adar_ once the situation calms."

Bain nodded. As Thranduil had expected, he was too tired to argue the point. His eyes immediately drifted to the cot on the far side of the tent, but he made no move toward it. Thranduil read his hesitation and offered a slight tilt of his head in reassurance. It was all Bain needed. He stumbled his way over to the cot and flopped down onto it, falling asleep almost instantly. Sigrid settled herself into a chair and drew her legs up to her chest. She too looked like she could fall asleep at any moment. The fear and physical exertion of running for their lives had drained them.

Thranduil turned his attention to the little one he was still holding. Her head was nestled on his shoulder. While he couldn't see her face, her quiet, rhythmic breaths said she was also asleep. He should be able to settle her down beside her brother without waking her. When he slid his hands under her arms to lift her, he discovered the task would be much more difficult than it had seemed. Tilda had somehow twined her fingers into the collar of his tunic. Even in sleep they wouldn't release their grip. After resettling an arm under her, Thranduil tried to free the fabric from her hand. He had absolutely no success. Her grip hadn't even loosened. He sighed. Clearly he was not going to be able to pry her off. How such a tiny human could be so strong he couldn't fathom.

His defeat obvious, Thranduil had to accept the fact that she would be remaining with him. As such, he would not be able to return to battle. At least not to the action itself. He should be able to find a location that allowed him to see and direct some portion of his troops. That had the potential to save quite a few lives.

He unclipped one side of his cloak and pulled it around so he could settle it over the sleeping child. It would keep her warm and shield her from direct view. Thranduil didn't want her to be terribly noticeable. That would lead to more questions and suspicion than he wanted to deal with. Besides, he had a reputation that did not fit with caring for children. He would prefer to keep it that way since there was no reason to change that opinion with the masses. Intimidation had kept his people and forest safe in the past decades.

Leaving the older children to rest, Thranduil stepped out of his tent and was immediately met by his guards. Words weren't needed. They simply followed their king up to the highest ridge at the edge of the camp. From there Thranduil could see the battle raging on the plain and within the city below. He would dispatch his guards as runners to carry orders to various cohorts or use them as a specialized unit to turn the tide of battle in nearby areas. No matter what, they were going to put an end to these orcs, and Thranduil would work to keep as many elven lives intact as he could. They had all seen enough death.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Three

The Three

Bard quickly discovered the major flaw in his plan to seek Thranduil's help, and that was that he didn't have the remotest idea where the Elvenking was. It was possible he wasn't anywhere near Dale or their temporary camp. He certainly didn't seem to be the type of leader to stay back in safety while his troops fought on the front lines. For all Bard knew Thranduil could still be out on the plains in front of Erebor. Finding him could take more time than Bard could afford, though it was still his best option.

There hadn't been any sign of Thranduil within the city so far, so Bard headed straight for the camp. Some people had to have returned, and the wounded would have been brought there as well. It was possible someone would know where he could find the Elvenking. If he didn't succeed in finding someone to direct him to Thranduil at the camp then he would need to scrap his plan and return to searching for his children on his own. The longer it took Bard to find his children the greater the chance they would come to harm.

Bard entered the camp at a sprint to find it mostly empty and quiet. He wasn't surprised by the emptiness. Every male capable of wielding a weapon was out on the battlefield. Many of the women had chosen to fight beside their husbands and brothers as well. Unsurprisingly, that left the camp relatively empty. The quiet was the surprising part. It was almost as if those that remained knew nothing of the battle. Clearly the wounded hadn't been brought in or there would have been a greater sense of unease and more panicked chatter. Without any of the wounded his chances of finding Thranduil were a lot lower. His only real option would be to find an elf and hope the elves knew where their king might be. If they would even speak to him. The only elf he'd had any true interaction with was Thranduil. It was possible the elves would view his request to see Thranduil in the middle of a battle as a threat or risk to their king. Bard had no idea what response he was going to get, but he had to try. Not only would he try, he would get through to one of them no matter what it took. For his children.

Bard began methodically searching the camp, and attempted to keep his agitation from showing in his body language. He probably wasn't being very successful given everyone he saw was purposefully giving him a wide berth. In truth, that was fine by him. The less interruptions between where he was and the elven portion of the camp the better. At least for the moment luck appeared to be with him. He didn't need to go all the way to the elven camp to find what he was looking for – or the current, less important thing he was looking for at least. The elf was one step closer to his children, and Bard tried to take running into him so easily as a good sign. Now if only this elf knew where Thranduil was and it continued to be this easy. And this fast.

"Master elf!"

The elf glanced up as his hand automatically went for his sword. When his gaze reached Bard his hand dropped away from the weapon. Whether it was due to recognition or that he'd seen Bard was a man and not an orc, Bard didn't know. Preferably the first since that would help him.

He offered the elf a nod of his head in greeting. Despite the racing of his heart and the desperate need to hurry, he knew taking a few moments to offer the courtesy could save him time in the long run. Knowing that didn't make it easy, but it did make it possible.

"I am Bard the Dragonslayer, and I'm looking for your king. Time is of the essence. Do you know where I might find him?"

Bard thought the request had come through as authoritative and in control, but he could have been wrong. The elf wasn't giving him any indication one way or the other. He wasn't showing Bard any expression at all, point of fact. It was rather unnerving. Since his nerves were already stretched near to breaking, waiting for a response when he couldn't read the elf was excruciating. The one thing Bard had learned from his short time of dealing with elves was that they had infinitely more patience than he did. Rushing one would get him nowhere. It could even be counterproductive. So he waited. Impatiently, but he waited. Finally the elf offered him a very subtle nod.

"King Thranduil is upon the rise, overseeing the battle."

Bard looked in the direction the elf was indicating and found a few figures grouped at the edge of an elevation. They were too far away for a mere human to identify them, so Bard would have to trust the elf's word. It was the best he had either way.

"Much appreciated," he returned with a nod of his head before setting off toward the rise.

He made it a decent distance from the elf at what could vaguely be considered a walk before his restraint broke. Picking up a ground eating jog, he weaved his way through the camp. Twice he nearly tripped over something on the ground since all of his attention was focused on reaching Thranduil, and through him, reaching his children. As he drew closer the centermost figure's gleaming gold hair became obvious. Bard's adrenaline spiked. The elf he'd spoken to hadn't been leading him astray. Bard knew of only one elf with that hair color. By the time he reached the rise of the hill he was nearly out of breath. Coming in at a run, disheveled and panting wasn't his most dignified entrance. With his children's lives on the line he didn't particularly care though. Thankfully Thranduil's guards seemed to know who he was and didn't try to stop him, though the one nearest to the king was watching Bard very closely.

Thranduil was in the middle of giving orders to one of his warriors, so Bard stayed back. He knew he couldn't interrupt no matter how much his heart wanted him to do just that. Relegated to wait again, he clenched his hands into fists and pressed them against his thighs in an effort to contain his tension. As Bard waited, he noted that Thranduil's cape was resting oddly over his left side. Perhaps he was holding something or had suffered an injury he was trying to conceal. Whatever the reason, it wasn't something Bard was going to dwell on. He had far more important concerns.

The instant Thranduil dismissed his warrior, Bard stepped forward.

"I request your assistance, Lord Thranduil."

One of Thranduil's eyebrows ticked up slightly. It was certainly a bold request, especially considering how it was stated. As Thranduil moved past Bard's request to the man himself, he paused.

"You are shaking."

Bard glanced down and found that it was true. His hands were visibly trembling. He swallowed and met Thranduil's eyes, ready to fight if need be. Bard was willing to put everything on the line for his children. Dignity be damned.

"Please, my lord. Help me find my children. I beg of you. They are missing somewhere in the city, and I fear they were swept up in the battle. Please. I must find them. They are my heart and soul. Anything you wish in return I will give to you if I can. Just help me find them."

The plea was heartfelt and raw. It had been given by a hurting father and not by the leader that Bard was supposed to be. Thranduil understood that. He too was a father, and there had been times when fear for his son had overridden his control. He had learned to force the outward expression of fear for his child down over the years, but that didn't mean the feeling had become any less intense. It was still there, lurking constantly under the surface. The same agony he felt when Legolas was in danger was mirrored and completely unrestrained on Bard's face. Clearly Bard would do anything to protect his children, as well he should.

There had never been any cause for Thranduil to meet Bard's children. They hadn't even discussed them. In fact, the only reason Thranduil knew Bard even had any was because Bard had stated they were the reason he'd stepped up to take on his new role. Thranduil had never had any reason to inquire further. Now it appeared that there was a reason for further inquiry. While Thranduil wasn't sure what he could do to help, he would offer what aid he could. Perhaps in return Bard would find out where the three young ones he'd rescued belonged.

"Breathe, Bowman. My help is yours."

Bard hadn't been at all confident that Thranduil would help him, so at first the words would not process. When they finally registered relief flooded through him. A weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and once again there was more than just a thread of hope. The pure elation of that feeling drove him straight to action.

"Then let us find them!" Bard returned as he whirled away and started back toward Dale.

It was almost as if Bard expected Thranduil to simply follow after him. Thranduil couldn't fathom why – though he already knew the man wasn't even remotely thinking clearly. It was somewhat humorous at least. Should they find the children, Thranduil would need to discuss this with Bard. If he was to lead, he needed to realize that he must push aside his fear and think clearly even when his children were in danger. Especially when they were in danger, in truth. For now, however…

"Bard," Thranduil called out, drawing the man to an immediate halt. "Should you wish my aid in finding someone, it would be best if I knew more about who I am to be looking for."

He raised an eyebrow very slightly and waited for Bard to see the error in his actions. It didn't take long. The smallest trace of color appeared on Bard's face as he made his way sheepishly back over to Thranduil. Bard had been too hopeful and hadn't wanted to waste more time, resulting in him not thinking clearly. That was something he couldn't afford if he wanted to find his children. He forced himself to slow down even though it was the last thing he really wanted to do.

"I have three. Two girls and a boy," Bard began. "Si-"

He found that his throat closed over Sigrid's name and he couldn't finish it. Talking about them when he didn't know if they were alive was a challenge. He had to force down the lump in his throat and brace himself before continuing, only this time he didn't even attempt to say their names. That was simply too much.

"My eldest is as beautiful as her mother was. She's nearly grown, though I choose not to see it most days. My son is 11, nearly 12. I promised him fresh bread, still warm from the ovens, spread with jam to celebrate on his birthday. He's a good boy and always looks after his sisters. Then there's my baby. My sweet Tilda. She's young enough to find need for her Da each day. They were last seen in the market, but I found no sign of them there. Now… I don't even know where to begin looking again. They could be anywhere."

Or already gone.

That thought forced him to squeeze his eyes tightly shut. He didn't want to hear it, even if it only came from a voice of reason deep inside himself.

Thranduil had thought little of the revelation of Bard having three children, the same number he'd saved from a horde of orcs. The fact that they were the same mix of genders meant little more. It was coincidence, nothing else. After all, many men could have three children with two of them girls. As Bard began to describe them, however, there were too many similarities to completely discount. He began to wonder, despite the impossibility. The ages of the first two seemed to fit, though Thranduil was hardly an expert at guessing human children's ages. It wasn't until Bard spoke Tilda's name that Thranduil began to believe his three and Bard's three were one and the same. The revelation of where they'd last been seen only confirmed it in Thranduil's mind.

 _Valar._

A smile tugged at the edges of his lips. Reaching up, he shifted his cloak away from his left side. It settled back behind him – though at an odd angle given it was still unclipped – and revealed the child nestled against him and sound asleep.

"Is this your Tilda, Bowman?" Thranduil asked.

As he spoke he brushed the little girl's hair back from her face. She looked peaceful in her sleep despite the dirt, blood, and grime of battle still clinging to her.

Bard hadn't given the odd placement of Thranduil's cloak any thought after his initial recognition of it. Now, what that cloak had revealed was all that mattered. He recognized that dress, as tattered as it was. When his eyes trailed up to the exhausted little face he knew like the back of his hand, he had to fight back tears.

"Tilda…"

Trembling and eyes wide, Bard could barely believe what he was seeing as he stepped forward and reached out for his daughter. He touched her hair and slid his hand down to tenderly cup her cheek. Thranduil was completely forgotten now that Bard knew he wasn't dreaming. Tilda was alive! Alive!

"Tilda? Tilda, my sweet, wake up."

When her eyes flickered open Bard's heart soared. She was here! She was alright! It took a moment for her to wake up enough to register her surroundings. Then her eyes landed on Bard and her entire face lit up.

"Da!"

Tilda threw herself at Bard and wrapped her arms around his neck in a near strangle hold. Bard pulled her against him and held her as tightly as she was holding him.

"Da! Da! You're here! Oh, Da!"

"Shh, Tilda. You're okay."

"I was so scared, Da!"

"Everything's okay now, baby," Bard assured her as he rubbed her back to try and calm her. Once she settled somewhat, he set her on her feet and knelt down in front of her. What he was about to do would likely trigger her again, but he had to know. He pulled back from her and cupped her face in his hands so he could look at her.

"Tilda, where are your brother and sister?"

Round eyes met his for a moment before looking around. She clearly didn't find what she was looking for because her eyes widened even more. Tilda stared at Bard in alarm.

"I… I don't know, Da."

Bard's grip on her tightened as panic flared through him again.

"When did you last see them, Tilda?"

Tears began streaming down her face as his question dragged her back to the horrors of the day.

"T-the market."

All of the color drained from Bard's face as Tilda confirmed his worst fears. The three of them really had been in the blood bath of the market. While Tilda had made it out, if the other two weren't with her… there wasn't a very good chance they'd made it out too. Bard forced the grief down, knowing showing any indication of it would upset his daughter more. He pulled her tight to him again and rested his forehead on top of her head with his eyes shut tight. He couldn't think about it. He simply couldn't.

"Bard."

Bard didn't want to look up and face Thranduil. There was no avoiding it however. He took a breath, forcing himself to remain as calm as he possibly could, and lifted his head from Tilda's. The Elvenking was watching him silently with no emotion visible on his face or in his eyes.

"Come with me."

There was no emotion to be read in Thranduil's words either, but they made Bard shiver none-the-less. If Thranduil had had Tilda then…

"You know something about Sigrid and Bain, don't you?"

Bard almost didn't want to know the answer. Thranduil simply offered a small nod of his head before repeating his directive to follow. This time he didn't wait to see if Bard would obey before heading back toward the camp. With no real choice but to do what he'd been asked, Bard took Tilda's hand in his and started after the Elvenking. He had no idea where Thranduil was taking him or why, but he assumed it had something to do with Sigrid and Bain. While he desperately wanted answers about his eldest children, he also dreaded them. There was very little chance those answers would be good. Soon enough Bard realized where they were going. Thranduil's tent. Bard's heart nearly broke. Thranduil must be going there to offer Bard privacy when he told him of Sigrid and Bain's fate. There would be no other reason to be entering Thranduil's private domain. Thranduil held open the tent's flap and motioned Bard in. He didn't want to go. If he remained outside he could stay in denial for a little while longer. He would still be able to hold onto the false hope that his children were alive. Once he walked into that tent Thranduil would reveal the horrible truth to him. There would be no escaping it.

"Bard, you'll want to go inside," Thranduil prodded after Bard had hesitated too long.

What he truly wanted to do was run away from all of this and pretend it wasn't happening, pretend Bain and Sigrid were away somewhere and would soon return. Instead he stepped into the tent. Head hung, he was planning on sitting down before Thranduil needed to tell him to. He was so intent upon that thought that he paid no attention to the odd tug on his arm as Tilda turned toward Thranduil, her face awash in excitement.

Tilda suddenly released Bard's hand and squealed, "Sigrid!"

Bard's head snapped up, and he watched Tilda race across the tent to where her older sister was slowly unfolding herself from a chair. Tilda's scream had woken Bain as well. He jerked upright on the bed.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked as he stared blearily around the tent.

His tired eyes found Tilda in Sigrid's arms before they moved on to find his father standing near the entrance to the tent and looking totally dumbfounded. His mouth was even hanging open.

"Da!"

Bain scrambled off the cot, nearly tripping himself when he got caught on the blanket draped over him, and raced toward his father. Bard wasn't totally ready for Bain to slam into him and he had to take a step back to balance himself. As Bain's arms closed around him, Bard almost choked. He had truly believed he had lost Bain and Sigrid. To have his son in his arms was nearly too much. His breathing came in ragged gasps as he fought to hold back tears.

"Bain! You're alive!"

He was alive! All three of them were alive! Bard couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or cry. While he hadn't wanted to believe they were gone, deep down he hadn't held out any hope of them being alive. The relief and joy was completely overwhelming. He found himself nearly squeezing the breath out of his son. Bain's eventual grunt of protest was all that convinced Bard to let go. When he pulled back he looked at Bain closely and ran his hands through the boy's hair. The splatters of dried black blood across Bain's face set Bard's heart racing again. That his son had been close enough to an orc at the time of its death to be covered like that… Bain might have even been forced to kill an orc himself. It almost made Bard sick to consider what his son had seen so soon after the chaos of Laketown. It was damage he would have to deal with later.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Da. We all are," Bain promised. His eyes shifted over to Thranduil. "He saved us."

Bard turned to gape at Thranduil, though he was careful to keep a hand on Bain's shoulder to assure himself the boy was still there.

"It's true," Sigrid added as she slipped her arm under her father's and leaned against his side. "We never would have gotten out of the market if King Thranduil hadn't stepped in."

Bard's eyes landed on Thranduil again. How was he supposed to react to everything Thranduil had done for him? The Elvenking had saved Bard's life by rescuing his children. There were no words to describe how much that meant, and there was no way he could ever repay Thranduil. Ever.

"First you saved my people from starvation. Then you save my children from orcs. They are my world, and they're still here because of you. I don't know how to thank you for that."

The words weren't enough. They weren't even close.

Thranduil's eyes lingered on the children for a time before they shifted to meet Bard's. No thanks were truly needed. Thranduil had seen enough children left fatherless thanks to the various minions of darkness. He did not want to see more join that fate. However…

"You become a good ruler, the king Dale is meant to have. You rebuild the city and make it prosperous again. Then you teach your son so that he may be a great ruler as well. He in turn will teach his son so Dale continues to thrive. It will benefit both of our people."

Bard stared at the Elvenking in shock, stunned that was all Thranduil was asking of him. It was a tall order for sure, but one Bard had already been facing before Thranduil had rescued his children. Before he could protest however, Thranduil was offering him a nod of farewell.

"And now I must return to the battle and my people. You are all welcome to remain here for a time should you wish."

With that Thranduil turned and strode out of the tent. Bard could only stare at the tent flap as it closed behind the Elvenking. A few weeks ago he never would have guessed that he would slay a dragon, become mayor of Laketown and Dale, or befriend an elf who would later save his children's lives. It was almost surreal.


	4. Epilogue

Epilogue

Being King had turned out to be harder and more tedious than Bard had originally thought. They had survived the winter months thanks mainly to the continued support of the elves. Dale was slowly being rebuilt and renewed. Some of that success could even be attributed to the dwarves. The Battle of Five Armies felt like long ago despite the fact that it had been less than six months. They had come a long way in such a short period of time. The amount of work to do certainly hadn't lessened over that time though.

Bard rubbed at his face and stretched his arms over his head. He could really do with a break. The jobs were endless, and he'd been sitting there pouring over paperwork for hours. Honestly, he would much rather be out in the town physically helping with the reconstruction. Sighing, he pulled the next piece of parchment toward him. He was only halfway through the page when a soft knock sounded at the door. It wasn't one of his children. They would have entered right after the knock. If this was another problem…

 _Remember, don't kill the messenger._

Problems were a fact of life at this point, and nearly as endless as his work. Dale was far from reconstructed after all.

"Enter," he called out after he'd schooled his features into near expressionlessness.

His assistant stepped into the room and offered a slight bow of his head.

"My Lord, the most recent elven shipment just arrived. This was sent specifically for you."

The aide held up a small clay jar sealed with waxed cloth and string. A strip of parchment had been tied to the seal as well.

"For me?"

"Yes, sir. It's addressed to you and Lord Bain. One of the elves bringing the delivery requested that it be brought directly to you."

Bard looked at the jar curiously. He couldn't imagine what it possibly was or who would have sent it.

"Alright. Thank you, Aldrich."

After accepting the jar and dismissing his assistant, Bard continued examining it. There was no question it was elven made. While not elaborate or decorated, the work was still too fine to have been made by men. The handwriting on the tag was definitely elven as well. It reminded him too much of Thranduil's to be otherwise. In fact, it could very well be the Elvenking's. Of course Bard couldn't think of any reason why Thranduil would be sending him a small jar of… something. Unfortunately the jar itself gave no clue as to what was inside.

Curious, Bard removed the tie and waxed cloth. Inside was a bluish purple substance. A quick sniff revealed it was sweet and fruity. Not a medicine then. His thoughts returned to Thranduil and the conversation they'd had about his children at the end of the Battle of Five Armies. Berry jam? Could it really be? He poked his finger into the jar and removed a tiny amount. It definitely looked and smelled like jam. A lick of his finger confirmed it. Jam! And a delicious one too!

The anniversary of Bain's birth was less than a week away. How had Thranduil known – for Bard had no question the gift was from the Elvenking anymore. They hadn't spoken of Bain's birth beyond the mention of the bread and jam. Awed, Bard shook his head and resealed the jar. Thranduil's resources and reach were truly terrifying at times. Bard had been grateful for them more than once though, as he was this time. Bain would be ecstatic. Once again Bard was faced with the challenge of finding a way to thank Thranduil. A gift such as this, however, was one he could easily repay.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Well, I hope at least some of you enjoyed this despite me not being too sure of it given it's my first foray into Tolkein and it's not my usual type of writing!_


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